Crosshairs
by Velkyn Karma
Summary: Roy's not really sure what to do with himself after the apocalypse destroys his future, but an assassination attempt on a fellow ex-sidekick forces him to reconsider his aspirations. Features Roy and Dick. Friendship only, no pairings. Part of the 'Age of Heroes' verse.
1. Chapter 1

**Crosshairs**

A fanfiction by Velkyn Karma

**Summary:** Roy's not really sure what to do with himself after the apocalypse destroys his future, but an assassination attempt on a fellow ex-sidekick forces him to reconsider his aspirations. Features Roy and Dick. Friendship only, no pairings.

**Note:** Inspired by **Black Friar**, who really wanted to see more of Dick and Roy at New Batcave—specifically the first assassination attempt on Dick. A sort-of prequel to my zombie apocalypse fic _Age of Heroes_—things will make a lot more sense if you read that one first.

**Warnings:** Language (especially later in the fic), some blood and gore, occasional dark outlooks on life (it is the apocalypse), passing mentions of zombies (but no zombies actually featured because I was thinking of you, Friar...)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own, or pretend to own, _Young Justice_ or any of its subsequent characters, plots or other ideas. That right belongs to DC, Warner Brothers, and associated parties.

* * *

"I think it's coming along really well," Dick Grayson said decisively, arms crossed as he watched the bustle of production in front of them. After a moment he glanced over and up at his companion, standing quietly beside him, and added, "Don't you?"

Roy Harper blinked once, and glanced over the whir of activity in front of them again with a little more focus this time. They were standing in what was formerly Arkham Asylum's Botanical Gardens, for the moment simply referred to as 'the gardens.' Before Z-day the building had, according to Dick, been intended for therapeutical use for the institution's mentally unstable patients, although considering one of Arkham's regulars had been Poison Ivy Roy wasn't sure how much use it had been. Most of the old vegetation had long since withered or grown wild with no staff (or eco-terrorists) to tend to them after the apocalypse, and Dick had been working with other colony survivors for months now to repurpose the building for more practical means. Many of the rooms had been reworked as efficiently as possible into vegetable and fruit gardens, to grow as much food as possible in the limited quantities of space, and planting had already begun. Now they were tackling some of the larger rooms, and Dick was ambitiously hoping to have them renovated in time to get some larger varieties of crops growing in time for the winter freeze.

"Well enough," Roy agreed, after a moment's study.

Things _were_ moving along pretty quickly, he had to admit. It had only been six months since he had assisted in retaking Arkham Asylum from the zeds, and every day it felt less like a tentative foothold and more like a solid foundation for human life to re-establish itself. But he wasn't going to fool himself either—the hardest test was still coming, in the form of a harsh New England winter right around the corner. He'd never experienced a true winter in Gotham yet, but he knew snows and temperatures could be brutal and unpredictable here, and he wasn't sure the newly-established colony would be able to survive it. For all their scrambling to complete preparations, there was still some concern that there wouldn't be enough food or medical supplies to last the winter. And he knew Dick was concerned that the generator he'd cobbled together wouldn't be able to handle the strain of keeping so many large buildings warm enough for the hundreds of colonists depending on them, while still maintaining necessary power for other tasks. No matter how he looked at it, it was going to be rough.

Dick seemed to sense his doubts, because he offered Roy a reassuring and sympathetic grin. "Stay whelmed," he said (Roy scoffed; even months later, Dick's wordplay took some getting used to). "It's going to take a lot of rationing and careful planning, but I think we can make it. And hey, at least we don't have to worry about the zombies in the winter, right?"

"Just the people," Roy agreed. He wasn't entirely sure if that was reassuring or not, though. If there was one thing he'd learned since Z-day started, it was that for every unexpectedly altruistic human being there were at least five terrified, selfish people desperate to survive any way possible, and their post-apocalyptic personalities did not always match up with the way they acted before it came.

Still, Dick was the one who had started the Arkham Refuge project, and it was Dick who understood it to the fullest and had enough experience to know what he was doing. He'd had a little over a year's worth of training under _Batman's_ tutelage, after all, and according to Ollie the man had been a master when it came to survival and disaster preparation. Roy's few months of crime-fighting alongside Green Arrow could hardly compare. If Dick thought they could survive the rough winter ahead, then maybe they really could.

"The people are scared," Dick said, and his smirk dropped off his face for a moment as he fell into one of his more serious moods. He shifted a little, watching some of the volunteer workers, and added, "We just have to prove they have nothing to be afraid of. That they can trust us, because we can get them through this." Serious expression or not, he sounded confident and stood tall, although his declaration was soft and meant for Roy's ears alone.

He wasn't wrong, Roy knew. Fear was really the number one enemy they had after Z-day, over even the zombies. Zeds were just monsters and could be killed easily, if you knew what you were doing. Terrified humans were unpredictable and supremely dangerous, especially in delicate situations as these. That was probably why Dick had targeted fear _specifically_ with his crazy Scarecrow-cell stunt months ago, when first enticing people to live on the island. It had been idiotically poetic and incredibly risky, staying overnight in the cell of a deranged man known for poisoning minds, but it had _worked._ The miasma of terror that had clouded the island when it first opened to the living for safety had dissipated when people began to realize Dick had _literally_ stared fear and insanity in the eye and not backed down, and that he could—and would—do the same for them. His confidence and reassurance were catching, and the survivors of Arkham Refuge were tentatively beginning to trust that this eleven year old kid could keep them alive.

But, Roy supposed, he wasn't exactly surprised. Dick had always been good with people, and it was becoming strongly apparently that he was a born leader, too. Between that and his Robin experience, Dick looked like he knew what he was doing, and it was why Roy was content to follow his lead. He'd been doing so for the last seven months, after all, and so far everything had turned out just fine—as fine as one could expect in the apocalypse, anyway.

And truth be told, Roy _didn't_ know what he was doing with himself after Z-day—which was the other reason he was content to follow Dick's lead in the hopes of things going a little smoother than they had been.

The apocalypse had been rough on everyone, and in theory Roy ought to have been more prepared for it than most, but he'd found himself anything but. Before Z-day, when he'd still been fifteen, he'd had everything worked out and known just where he was heading in life, his whole path paved out before him with sharpness and clarity. He'd work with Ollie, train as his partner to build his crime-fighting skills and experience, and when he'd eventually learned everything he could from his mentor he'd move on to do a lot of good with the Justice League itself. Back then, Roy was sure he could hit League material by the time he was eighteen, if he pushed himself hard, trained constantly, and did everything he could to prove himself.

But the apocalypse had shot all of that straight to hell. Speedy had been forbidden from joining the initial battle, and before Roy had known it he'd lost contact with Green Arrow entirely, never hearing from him again. News reports grew more and more grim as zed swarms overtook some of the largest cities and fortresses on the planet, overwhelming some of the world's strongest inhabitants, hero and villain alike. The entire system was broken down and the world's heroes killed or scattered to the four winds within the span of eight months of brutal, hard fighting and worse losses, and it became shockingly apparent that the Justice League—and Roy's every goal and motivation with it—was dead and gone.

That once sharply clear road was made little more than mud and ash, indistinguishable and meandering. He had no idea where it was taking him or where he was going, and some days he even wondered if it was worth it, continuing to trudge laboriously forward when he couldn't even see where his next steps were taking him.

Roy had always been a motivated individual, and not having something to work towards, a goal, a skill, an improvement, was a new and uncomfortable experience; he didn't like it, but he had no idea of how to really fix it. For a while he toyed with the idea of finding Ollie, but his few weak leads on the West Coast went nowhere, and there was a sinking feeling deep in his gut that warned him not to pursue too much farther. Too many missing persons stories ended in tragedy these days, especially when a full death wasn't the worst fate for the lost family member or friend after Z-day.

He'd followed up on his other link to the Justice League instead: Robin, the only other partner to a full-time member before the apocalypse had hit. He'd met Robin only once, when Green Arrow had teamed up with Batman on a mission, and both had brought their proteges for practical experience. Robin might have had some idea of what Roy was going through, or he might have had some idea of where the Leaguers were at; most importantly, Robin was more likely to still be _alive,_ especially if _his_ mentor had also forbidden him from fighting when it became too dangerous. Roy had latched onto the idea in the same way he'd once idealized his dream of joining the League, and used it to keep himself going in the harrowing months-long journey across the zed-dominated United States, from West-Coast Star City to East-Coast Gotham City.

As it happened, Robin _was_ alive, but had very little idea of what had happened to most of the Leaguers, which disappointed Roy more than a little. He did, however, understand _extremely_ well what Roy was dealing with—he'd lost his own mentor, twice-dead, and the loss had hit him hard. More impressive to Roy was that, unlike himself, Robin had still set his sights on the future and a new goal, one that promised to be ambitious, exceedingly dangerous, and more than a little insane, but would also save hundreds if not thousands if he could pull it off. It wasn't a job a single kid, much less an eleven-year-old, could do alone, though. Roy had no plans or goals of his own, not anymore, but he had _some_ training from Ollie that could be useful, and Robin was a friend; the choice had been glaringly obvious. Speedy had stuck around, assisting Robin with the reclamation of the abandoned Arkham Asylum, and later, Roy Harper had stayed behind to help Dick Grayson with the rebuilding and fortification efforts.

But for all that, Roy's path was still as muddy and indistinguishable as it had been before. For now he was content to follow, to drift, assist Dick where it was needed; but ultimately he considered himself as purposeless as he had been before he'd stepped foot in Gotham. True, his aim was as excellent as ever and his combat skills far above the average civilian, his input on security measures was occasionally useful towards shoring up Arkham's defenses, and he'd been able to assist with ranged weapons training to increase their survival ratio in zed attacks.

But none of it was really _necessary_, in the long run. Dick had far more experience and skill with these things thanks to his own training, he ultimately called all of the shots, and this was his city, so he obviously knew it better. Had Roy not been there, he was sure Dick still would have managed all of it, somehow. Helping Dick kept Roy active, kept him feeding off of the younger ex-sidekick's motivation, and certainly Roy knew he wasn't completely useless, but his life was still stagnant: in the long run, nothing had really changed. He still had no idea what he was going to do with himself after the apocalypse, and the longer he waited in this rut the more passive and disinterested he became—which was the part that ultimately worried him most of all.

"Dick to Roy, over," said a voice next to him, and Roy blinked in surprise as he glanced over at his fellow former sidekick. Dick looked vaguely amused as he stared up at his companion. "Back with us, yet? I've been trying to get your attention for a minute now."

"Sorry. Thinking," Roy said absently, shaking his head.

Dick cocked his head, the amusement on his face slipping away a little, to be replaced by a hint of concern. "You okay, Roy? You seem kinda far away. Actually, you've been that way for days now."

"I'm fine. Really," Roy stressed, when Dick gave him a doubtful look. "It's the apocalypse and we're heading towards winter. There's a lot of things to think about."

Dick didn't look like he bought into it entirely, but he didn't press further, for which Roy was grateful. The kid was a friend, but his problems were his problems, and he'd have to figure out how to deal with them on his own. Dick had enough on his plate to deal with, without having to deal with Roy's future concerns as well.

"What were you trying to tell me, anyway?" Roy asked after a moment, shifting the topic bluntly away from himself.

Dick raised an eyebrow at his lack of subtlety—even at eleven the kid was too damn clever and opinionated for his own good—but played along. "I was saying I was just about to head along to my next stop, if you wanted to tag along. Things are moving along right on schedule here, so I need to report it to the council members so they can start getting the supplies for planting together. I also need to stop by I.T. to see if they've been able to cobble together more parts for the generator, 'cause I need to get some of the kinks worked out of it tonight—but since we're heading over to the mansion anyway I figured I'd stop in and check on the kids first." His expression went a little sad. "They brought in three more yesterday, it sounds like. Some of the survivors trying to find refuge here found these kids abandoned and were decent enough to take them with. I want to make sure they're settling in okay."

"It's a wonder you find time to sleep," Roy said, as he idly fell into step behind Dick. He had nothing better to do for the moment—he'd already done morning training with the volunteer guards—so he might as well tag along.

"Sleep is for the weak," Dick said, a wicked grin on his face, but the expression softened after a moment. "I've got a lot of practice, though. You know that."

Roy supposed he did, working for Batman, although something about it just didn't seem to suit Dick. Maybe Batman could power on for days on little to no rest, but Roy suspected it probably wasn't as good an idea for an eleven year old to try. Still, it wasn't his place to intervene. Besides, Dick knew what he was doing, and although he had a near inhuman number of jobs that he took care of every day, he juggled them with surprising skill and didn't seem all that worse for the wear. Once again, Roy chalked it up to having far more training and experience from Batman. "I guess," he finally conceded, after a moment.

They exited the Garden building and trudged across the grounds, heading for the mansion that took up a large portion of the eastern part of the island. It was early October, but the air was unusually sharp and chilly today with an unpleasantly cool breeze. It meant most colonists and volunteers without tasks or assignments were hiding indoors, and it was oddly quiet on the grounds, other than the whistle of the wind and the occasional sounds of construction. Those that were outside were bundled into thicker coats and heavier clothing and went about their duties as briskly as possible, assisting with building, repairing, and cleaning as they prepped for the incoming winter. There was an air of urgency and worry hovering in the air from most of those out and about, but Roy noted with interest that many of the workers seemed to calm a little as he and Dick walked past, and many of them glanced over in Dick's direction with clear recognition in their eyes. Dick did not seem concerned in the least by the attention, and often stopped for a moment to say hello, offer encouragement or reassurances or suggestions on projects, ask how they were holding up, or just wave and offer a grin.

"They're really starting to warm up to you," Roy observed, after Dick successfully reassured another gaggle of workers fixing one of the guard-houses into a storeroom about their high survival chances for the coming winter. The men and women had gone back to work with renewed energy at the prospect of their work making a difference and seeing the spring, and most intriguing of all to Roy was that they took the words of an eleven year old so seriously.

"Like I said," Dick said with a shrug, "We just have to show them they can make it through this. Panicking is the worst possible thing that could happen right now. I'm just reminding them to stay whelmed, that's all."

"But _you're_ the one they're listening to," Roy pointed out. "They're starting to recognize who you are, especially after that Scarecrow stunt. As _you_, not...you know." Dick nodded, and Roy added, "People are beginning to realize Dick Grayson has a hand in nearly everything that goes on here on the island. They're learning to trust _you_, not the rest of the people on the council."

"Hey, I'm not responsible for _everything_ here," Dick argued. "Everyone here's doing good work and pitching in. The council guys are making good decisions and keeping an eye on day to day stuff. And of course you've helped out a lot with security measures too, Roy."

Roy shook his head, expression dull. "I haven't done all that much," he said truthfully. "Nothing you couldn't handle on your own. And the fact that you know what everyone else is up to on this island when it comes to it's survival is just another indication that, even if you aren't making the calls, you've still got a hand in it. Face it, Dick. No matter who else makes a decision on this island, _you're_ the face of Arkham Refuge—and the civilians here are starting to realize that." Whether or not that was a good thing or a bad thing remained to be seen. In Roy's experience, people in positions of power like that could do a lot of good if they could prove themselves—but they also took the fall if something went bad. And lots of things could go bad in the apocalypse.

"_Obviously_ everybody knows good leader material when they see it," Dick said with a laugh, as he increased his pace; the mansion's steps weren't too far away, now, and it would be nice to get in from the wind. He waved to the guards on the steps as they approached, who nodded back to both Dick and Roy out of respect, and Dick added more seriously, "But really, Roy, don't sell yourself short, you're way more useful than you give yourself credit for. In a crisis there's nobody else I'd rather have at my ba—"

The shot rang out with piercing clarity, shattering the whispers of the wind and the quiet of the cold day with alarming suddenness. Dick staggered backwards as his words cut off with a pained yelp, and the cry barely managed to stifle the noise of the second gunshot, or the third.

For the barest fraction of a second Roy's mind was blank from shock, and his eyes widened as Dick rocked backwards from the sudden impact. Another millisecond later and Roy's startled mind managed to connect the noise and the reaction to what had happened, but even so, it was hard for him to accept it, to comprehend it. _Shot. Dick had been_ shot. Dick _had been shot. Why had he been shot? Why would anyone...why would...what?_

There was a thud bare moments later as Dick crashed backwards onto hard-packed dirt and dying autumn grass, eyes wide and teeth grit in pain. His jacket was already showing the first stains of red, and it was suddenly all too apparent that _this was real_ and getting worse_ fast._

Part of Roy's mind was still confusedly trying to put the pieces together—_why_ would anybody want to shoot _Dick?_—but the rest of him was already moving on autopilot. His months of training with Green Arrow, and another year and a half strengthening his survival skills still further in the apocalypse, had him slipping an arrow from his ever-present quiver and sliding it to the bow in a matter of seconds.

_Shots came from above, and in front of us, the way Dick fell,_ he analyzed quickly, eyes already scanning the mansion. There were only so many places a gunman could take the shot from, and he found the man's silhouette buried in a cast shadow almost instantly, firing his arrow almost as soon as his eyes fell on the target. His aim, if nothing else, was still perfect, even agains the wind: there was a pained shriek from one of the many nooks and crannies atop the mansion's roof, and the gunshots ceased. Seconds after the attack had begun the threat had been completely neutralized.

Roy scanned the area quickly, still with his bow at the ready—where there was one attacker, there might be others. But he saw no other immediate threats; just a few staring, shocked onlookers, and the two guards that had been on the steps, their own bows drawn and already running towards him.

"Get up there _now_ and find whoever did this," Roy snapped at them immediately, pointing to the roof. "He may try to run, but I know I got a good shot at him; he won't get far. Catch him and put him somewhere until we can deal with him!" They both nodded, wide-eyed with respect, and in the back of his mind Roy realized they were stunned that he'd been able to make such a difficult shot so fast. He didn't care, as long as it made them listen to him, and seconds later they ran off to do as they were told.

Threat dealt with, Roy slung his bow back over his shoulder and crouched down next to Dick, who was still sprawled on the ground and looked dazed. His right shoulder was already bleeding pretty badly, and there was a gash on his upper right arm where a second shot had grazed him. Roy cast about anxiously for a third injury—there had been three shots—and felt only the tiniest flash of relief at the harmless furrow dug into the ground near Dick. Thank God the would-be assassin had missed at least once...

Minor relief shifted to panic a moment later as Dick groaned in pain, left arm twitching feebly as he tried to reach for his injured shoulder, and Roy realized he didn't know what the _hell_ to do. Dick was the one in charge, the one with the experience, the one who knew how to call the shots and when—he was _Robin_, for crying out loud, while Roy had barely made any headway as Speedy! But Robin, Dick, was down and hurting, badly by the looks of it, and Roy was struck rather suddenly by the enormity of it.

He wasn't a damn leader—he wouldn't have even snapped those orders to the guards just now if Dick hadn't just been _shot_ and truthfully he hadn't even known where that had come from, he'd just..._done_ it. And now Dick was down and—God, somebody had tried to _shoot_ him, who tried to shoot a kid, much less the kid saving hundreds of lives, what the hell was going _on,_ what the hell was he supposed to _do_—

_Later, Roy!_ he snarled at himself inwardly. _Get it together, you idiot! Dick first, then everything else!_

"Damn it," he cursed out loud.

"Roy?" Dick asked suddenly. His voice sounded choked, hoarse, like he was biting back a cry or groan, and he looked a mix of pained and bewildered. "What...what happened?"

_Get it together, Roy,_ he repeated to himself, more firmly this time. He schooled his expression as best as he could, doing his best to hide his worry, and said out loud, "You got shot, now don't move and do as I say, got it?"

"Kinda...hoped I was done getting...shot at," Dick said, wincing and trying to lever himself up slowly.

"I said stay _still_," Roy snapped at him immediately, putting a hand on Dick's good shoulder to hold him down.

Dick complied, but apparently there was more on his mind, because after a moment he said thickly, "S...see what I...mean, though? You...you're already here he...helping. What'd I tellya...not useless..."

Roy had to fight very hard to keep his frustration at himself and his exasperation at his friend from slipping onto his face. Dick had just been _shot_ and was still trying to reassure _him!_ And meanwhile he was sitting here like an idiot, not knowing what to do. The differences between Robin and Speedy were growing more obvious by the second; it was no wonder Dick had taken the lead while Roy just drifted behind him.

But he couldn't let himself do that now, not if he wanted to get Dick through this. "Don't talk so much, just breathe," Roy ordered him. Okay. Okay, now what the hell was he supposed to do...

Unexpectedly Roy found his old training coming back to him, and could hear Ollie's voice in his head, running him through basic combat and first aid scenarios with civilians._ "Make sure you get rid of the threats first, before you try to help,"_ Ollie had warned. _"You can't do a civilian any good if you get shot or stabbed or blown up yourself and they could get hurt even more."_

Okay. He'd done that, on autopilot more than anything else, but the threat was gone. Check.

_"Call an ambulance next,"_ were memory-Ollie's next words of wisdom, _"and don't try to move them unless you absolutely have to, if the situation's still too dangerous for them to be there safely. Stay with them and keep giving first aid until the professionals get there."_ But that wasn't happening. There were no ambulances available on Arkham Refuge, and no communications for him to contact the medical facility on the western side of the island, anyway. He could send a runner, but he didn't know how bad off Dick was; it might be too late by the time they arrived by foot with proper equipment. _I think this counts as a potentially dangerous situation, Ollie,_ Roy thought. _I'll carry him myself if I have to._

_"Check the basics next."_ Right, Roy remembered this. Dick was breathing, and when he slid his fingers below his friend's jaw there was a pulse, too; not as strong as it should have been, but there. Very, very carefully Roy examined his friend for further injuries, but thankfully Dick did not appear to have any major skull or spinal damage, as the shots were all concentrated on his right side. He'd still have to be careful moving him, but at least he wouldn't paralyze him doing it.

The gash wasn't so bad, but the shoulder wound was bleeding pretty heavily, and Roy was starting to get even more worried. There was an artery in there somewhere and if it had been hit Dick was in serious trouble. He pressed one of his gloved palms to the injury, putting pressure on the wound, and tried to ignore Dick's agonized whine as he did so. Dick thrashed, and instinctively attempted to use one of his martial arts moves to free himself, but he was weak and the defensive move was easy to avoid. "Dick!" he snapped. "I'm trying to _help,_ stop attacking me!"

"S...sorry," Dick said thickly, and added with a trace of a whimper, "Hurts..."

"I know it does, but I've got to keep pressure on it," Roy said, a little more gently this time. "Just bear with it, okay? Just a little longer and I can get you to the med lab." Dick nodded, gritting his teeth.

Binding the injuries was next, Ollie's voice coached, especially if he had to move Dick. He coaxed his friend into putting pressure on the wound, and then tossed his bow and quiver onto the ground next to his prone friend and shrugged off his jacket. The wind was like icy needles on his bare arms and tore through his threadbare T-shirt, but he ignored it, instead slicing one of the sleeves off using a razor-sharp arrow from his quiver. He bound the shoulder injury carefully but firmly, ignoring Dick's pained groans while muttering reassurances poorly disguised as threats about how Dick had _better_ be _just fine._ When that was taken care of, he tore a further strip from his jacket to deal with the gash on his friend's arm, as well.

"How you hanging in there, Dick?" he asked urgently, as he finished up his work and slung his bow and quiver back across his shoulders. He wouldn't even think of leaving them behind now—if somebody had attacked Dick, he could still be in danger, and Roy had to be able to fight.

Dick didn't answer at first, and Roy frowned, lightly slapping the side of his face with his open (and now bloodied-glove free) palm. "Dick! C'mon, stay with me here, just a little longer, okay?"

"...said that already..." Dick slurred tiredly, after a moment. His eyelids were fluttering as he tried to stay focused, and he added, "S'_lot_ longer. Not...little."

"Whatever. Just keep doing it," Roy hissed. "I can't believe you're arguing _words_ at a time like this..."

"Cold..."

"What?"

"Question. Answer. S'cold..." Dick flicked his good hand feebly again, as if gesturing to the air.

Roy frowned, and it took him a second to realize Dick was answering his initial question. When he finally understood he pressed one of his palms to Dick's forehead. It was cold out already, but Dick was chillier than he should have been, and much paler, too. Shock couldn't be setting in already, could it? He _had_ lost a lot of blood...worried, Roy wrapped him as best as he could in the remnants of his now-sleeveless jacket, wincing internally every time his movements caused Dick to groan or whimper softly again. By the time he was done Dick's eyes were fluttering again, and he was barely able to focus on Roy's words, slipping in and out.

Roy had to get him to the medical facility. _Now._

Ignoring the few concerned civilians drifting anxiously nearby, Roy crouched and very carefully scooped Dick up into his arms. He was surprisingly easy to lift, and Roy shifted him carefully so as to put the least amount of pressure or tension on the injury. Dick groaned softly, and his head lolled bonelessly against Roy's shoulder, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He was drifting fast. Grinding his teeth in determination, Roy turned and set off at a run for the medical facility on the other side of the island.

Carrying Dick was easy...frighteningly so. It shocked him, how light Dick was; the kid was only five years younger than him, but he weighed practically nothing. Some of it could probably be attributed to a lack of food—everybody was thinner than they used to be, with the apocalypse. But more than that, for the first time Roy was beginning to realize just how..._small_ Dick was. How _young._ Batman's former partner was so intelligent and had so much experience when it came to disaster that Roy had always thought of him as...well, as _Robin._ Skilled, strong, clever, better and more prepared in every way, shape and form than Speedy or Roy could ever be, never requiring worry or concern, immune to even the problems of the apocalypse. It had never occurred to him to ever think of the kid as being merely _eleven_, still a child in every other sense of the word, and for the first time it really hit Roy that Dick was just that: a child, even younger than him, trying to survive in a harsh and unforgiving environment.

And somebody had just tried to _kill_ him. Tried, and nearly succeeded. The person in his arms was not Robin, the Boy Wonder, survivor of the apocalypse, invincible and legendary. Nor was it Richard Grayson, founder of Arkham Refuge, immune to fears and nightmares and champion of the people. It was just Dick, just a _kid_ who had been unfairly shot and was hurting badly and was not, above all else, invincible. No matter how well he played a hero, in either guise, he was only human, only mortal, imperfect and limited and _vulnerable._

And it was a terrifying realization to make.

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New Batcave seems pretty popular for readers...hope you guys enjoy this three-parter featuring it, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Crosshairs**

Part two of a fanfiction by Velkyn Karma

**Disclaimer:** I do not own, or pretend to own, _Young Justice_ or any of its subsequent characters, plots or other ideas. That right belongs to DC, Warner Brothers, and associated parties.

* * *

It took him a little under ten minutes to run from one end of Arkham Refuge to the other, with the lack of crowds and the speed he was pushing for. But even so, by the time Roy reached the doors of the medical facility, panting and gasping, Dick was already unconscious and no longer responding to his prompts. Grimacing, Roy moved to shoulder open the doors, but they were opened for him from inside; it seemed some clever soul had run ahead to warn the facility as soon as they'd realized Dick had been shot. Roy bulled past the anxious watchers, giving them automatic wary glares as he clutched Dick a little closer protectively, and into the warmth of the facility.

It didn't take him long to find their medical staff; even though they didn't have many doctors or nurses as of yet, half of them were already gathered in the medical foyer, alerted by the urgent messages. "Dr. Cassidy is prepping surgery," one of the nurses said, as she and two others pushed a gurney forward and gestured for Roy to set Dick down on it.

For a moment he hesitated, keeping an almost possessively protective hold on his fellow ex-sidekick. Dick had been shot by somebody living on this island, somebody Dick _himself_ had offered protection to by virtue of admitting them to the Refuge. If one supposedly innocent civilian could be such a threat to Dick, could he really trust _anybody_ on the island? Dick was just as vulnerable under the knife of Arkham doctors as he was outside in firing range. Roy was the only one he could be absolutely, one hundred percent certain was not out for Dick's life.

But he mentally chastised himself for his stupidity a moment later. Roy couldn't afford to be paranoid, not when Dick's life was at stake. He couldn't save Dick himself; he'd just have to trust that these people really did want to help him. Because Dick would be safe from further harm with Roy, but it would only last a few minutes, until he was dead. It took a lot of strength to do it, but Roy relinquished his grip on his friend, setting him down as gently as possible on the waiting gurney.

The medical team was small, but Roy would grudgingly give them credit where it was due: as soon as they had Dick they were off in a flurry of movement, shouting orders back and forth to each other as they wheeled him away. Roy fell in line behind them automatically, idly staring at the painted lines on the floor tiles leading to different parts of the facility, making note of the fact that they were following the red stripe unerringly through several twists and turns. He followed until they shoved through a pair of thick, barred metal doors, giving him a brief glimpse of the surgery room and the young red-headed doctor waiting anxiously within, before they clacked closed in his face.

For one crazy moment Roy considered shoving his way through after them to supervise the procedure. He vetoed the idea immediately. The surgery was still being renovated, he knew—Dick had already taken great steps to transform it from something that rather disturbingly resembled a torture chamber to a more acceptable room for the procedures. But it was still a work in progress; there wasn't a lot of space, and supplies and tools were limited. Roy would only get in the way and impede Dick's chances, and as much as he wanted to be in there, he wouldn't let himself do that to a friend.

So he waited, instead. The medical facility had no waiting room for such purposes; it had always been private and intended for the asylum's patients before Z-day, making such a room pointless. One of the rooms close to the foyer had been renovated for friends and family of patients to make it more comfortable, but Roy absolutely refused to go any farther from the surgery than he had to. So he settled down on the steps next to the ramp they'd wheeled Dick down, with a perfect view of the surgery doors, and began his vigil.

For a while it was nothing less than nerve-wracking. The room was sound-proof—once again bringing to mind its formerly disturbing nature—and meant Roy could not glean even the tiniest bit of insight to Dick's condition. He had no way to tell how much time was passing, but it felt as though every second crawled by unbearably slowly. He was freezing, sitting on stone in the cold hallway without his coat, but couldn't bring himself to care. All he could see, over and over, was Dick's pale face, all that blood; all he could hear was the gunshot; all he could feel was how frighteningly light and small Dick had been when he'd carried him. And all he could think, over and over, was how shocked he was his friend had been so brutally attacked, and how horrified he'd been when he realized just how vulnerable and_ young_ he really was.

Over time, when the adrenaline and the shock began to wear off and he was left in the company of his more coherent thoughts, that realization became stronger, more prominent. Before it had surprised him how easily he had overlooked the fact that Dick was, ultimately, a child; it was only now, after sitting there in a dank, freezing Arkham hallway for far too long with only himself for company, that he realized what it meant.

Dick was just a _kid._ A smart kid, to be sure, one trained by Batman and more prepared than anybody else on the island for anything the apocalypse could throw at them, but he was still only _eleven._ For all his overly confident claims that he could handle everything, look out for everyone, take care of each problem thrown at them post Z-day, the fact of the matter was he _couldn't._ Not by himself, anyway, and not without wearing himself ragged and painting himself as a target for everyone who so much as disagreed with him. Dick could look out for the Refuge, but he needed somebody to look out for_ him,_ too, somebody he could trust to watch his back and advise him, whether he wanted it or not. If he didn't Arkham Asylum was going to be the death of him one way or another, probably sooner than later.

And inexplicably suddenly, Roy knew what his purpose after the apocalypse was. It had been there all along, he realized, with an oddly calm sort of clarity; it had only taken this mind-opening situation for him to see it.

Dick needed somebody to keep an eye on him—to look out for _his_ wellbeing while he was busy looking after everyone _else's_—and who better to back him up than a fellow ex-sidekick? Roy already understood, better than anybody else on the island, what Dick was dealing with, in the same way that Dick was the only one who would ever be able to fully understand his own problems and losses. He didn't revere Dick as a hero in either guise, like the rest of the citizens did, but saw him as a friend; he could see Dick's mistakes and shortcomings for what they were, advise him on things if desired, argue _against_ him if necessary for his own safety. And most importantly, Roy could _protect_ him, safeguard him as best as he could to prevent things like_ this_ from ever happening again, because he was the only one he could ever trust with such an important task.

It was a heavy undertaking, promising to be difficult and exhausting. It would mean a lot of sleepless nights keeping an eye out for danger, living with his eyes narrowed suspiciously at everyone until proven innocent, and it would mean a very real risk to his own life if he had to take drastic actions to protect his self-appointed charge. Not to mention dealing with his charge himself, who would always and inevitably put others before his own well-being, and might very well dig in his heels stubbornly in protest even if it _was_ for his own good. And it was a job he would never be able to back out of; once he agreed to follow this path he knew he would never be able to escape it again.

But for all that, it was worth it. To Roy the decision felt..._right._ It was a purpose, a goal, a direction, a reason to keep pushing forward, and it wasn't something to just keep him active. He _wanted_ to do this, in a way he hadn't wanted to do anything else since the day the League crumbled and took his dreams with it. He wanted to protect Dick, and he wanted to help _him_ protect these people. Dick wanted to beat back the apocalypse, and Roy wanted to make sure he survived long enough to do it, and had at least one unwavering supporter through all the struggles.

No, not wanted. He _would._ Dick was _going_ to succeed, because he was _going_ to make it through this mess, and Roy was unquestionably _going_ to be at his side through all of it until the last of the zeds were eradicated or he was dead.

"No going back," Roy said grimly, glaring at the unmoving surgery doors ahead. "You make it through this, Dick, and you've got me at your back one hundred percent, and I will do my damned best to make sure things like this never happen again. That's an oath."

There was no answer, and the room beyond was still eerily silent, but it didn't matter; Roy had said his piece and he was committed, with the ghosts of old Arkham as his witnesses. For the first time he really felt the cold and his own exhaustion, but he forced it back, determined, and returned to his vigil with renewed strength. He would not be caught by surprise again.

It took a long time for the doors to open again. He was sure of it, even though each second crawled and he felt each minute pass as an hour. But at last the heavy double doors cracked open again, releasing the small team of doctors and nurses that had rushed to Dick's aid when they'd first arrived ages ago. Roy hauled himself to his feet immediately, ignoring his freezing, protesting limbs, and searched the faces of the medical personnel worriedly. If something had happened to Dick...

But there was no hint of regret or loss, and several of them wore determined looks instead as they carefully wheeled the gurney out of the room again. Roy rushed forward and noted with relief that although Dick still looked far too pale for his own good, it was not even remotely close to the complexion of the dead zeds outside the walls. Dick was alive.

The staff gestured for him to back away so that they could move their charge safely. Roy did as bid, but fell into step behind the team again, catching the arm of one of the nurses. "What happened? How is he?"

The woman sighed, and Roy noted that she looked exhausted. The med staff had been pushed to their limits recently with the onset of winter, and these people were probably overworked, understaffed, and in dire need of some assistance. Roy made a mental note of it for later; training civilians to manage basic tasks around the facility would free up the more experienced personnel for emergencies like this in the future.

But for all her exhaustion the woman's answer was clear enough. "He got lucky..._very_ lucky. The gunshot wound to his shoulder was messy, but the bullet missed his subclavian artery, _barely._ He wasn't hit at the joint, either, or he'd have a hard time using that arm for the rest of his life. He did lose a lot of blood, though, and the bullet caused a scapular fracture instead of an exit wound. That's not going to be fun, since there's really nothing we can do about it other than let it set normally on its own."

"But he'll live," Roy summed up, feeling the tightness in his chest finally starting to loosen.

"He'll live," the nurse confirmed. "It'll take about six to eight weeks at least for the fracture to mend, and he'll have to keep his arm in a sling for a while. About the same for the gunshot wound. He'll need to take it easy during that time, and gradually work up movement in the arm again. But he'll survive, and there shouldn't be any lasting problems."

"Good," Roy said, breathing a sigh of relief. Getting Dick to take it easy was going to be a Herculean task in and of itself, especially the way he'd been running himself into the ground to take care of the Refuge, but it was a task he'd take on and gladly as long as Dick was actually going to be okay. Dick had kept up his half of the silent oath, whether or not he knew it; it was time for Roy to step forward and uphold his own part of the bargain.

Roy followed after the staff as they wheeled the still-unconscious Dick to a more private room for recovery; he had no intentions of leaving Dick alone again after the shooting until he could work things out further. Halfway there, as they passed the medical foyer, Roy spotted a pair of Refuge guards standing anxiously by the main doors, bows slung over their shoulders. They spotted him and came forward immediately to follow in his wake, and Roy recognized them as the same pair that had been standing guard at the mansion's steps when Dick had been shot.

"What is it?" he asked curtly over his shoulder, when neither one seemed ready to speak.

Even without looking back at them he could tell they were exchanging glances, before one spoke up. "We caught the assassin, like you ordered...uh, sir." Roy raised an eyebrow at that last part; it was a good thing he wasn't facing them. Sir? Really? "You were right, you managed to hit him in the arm; bastard won't be shooting with that hand for a while, if he ever does again. Got a doc to sew him up, then we locked him in one of the old Intensive Treatment cells. One of the ones that haven't been renovated yet."

Roy nodded. It had been smart thinking on their part. The Intensive Treatment building, towards the center of the island, had formerly been where all of Gotham's most dangerous, deranged, and often power-bearing criminals were kept. Dick had plans to renovate the entire building and eventually begin using it for manufacturing and necessary supplies, and had even begun the process for part of it, but most of the building remained untouched and awaiting modification. If ever there was a place left in Arkham Asylum to put still-living threats, it was there.

Still, Arkham had been known for its breakouts, and if characters like the Joker or Riddler or Scarecrow had means of getting into and out of their cells when it was still fully operational, even a normal human could potentially slip their bonds now that it wasn't. "He's not there alone, is he?" Roy asked with a frown, and this time he did glance over his shoulder.

One of the guards, a man in his thirties, shook his head. "No, sir," he answered immediately (there was that_ sir_ again). "Lived in Gotham my whole life, heard the Arkham breakout warnings often enough. Cooper and Beckett are guarding him and they know to keep their bows ready."

"Good." The last thing he needed was for the guy who took a shot at Dick to be at large. The Refuge was in enough trouble as it was without requiring vigilante action.

Roy kept following the medical team, considering the matter closed, but after a moment he realized the men were still following him. It took him a second to register that they were waiting on further orders from _him._ Not Dick Grayson, who had established the guard and accepted volunteers for training. No, they were awaiting orders from _Roy Harper,_ who until now had been little more than a drifting shadow following after Dick. It was a little bewildering to Roy, who had never made any attempts to take a position of authority on the island, and in the back of his mind it was almost laughable that men at least ten years his senior would take orders from a sixteen year old. Sure, he'd helped train half the guards—highly apparent, based on the way the majority of them carried bows—but he'd never considered himself their _leader._ Just another guard in the volunteer service, who happened to have more shooting skill and shared it accordingly to up survival chances.

But the fact that they were waiting on _his_ orders was a clear indication that he wasn't just another guard. Nor could he ever be again; not if he wanted to seriously protect Dick like he'd promised. Acting as a leader—as Dick's second in command on the island—wasn't something he'd ever really wanted or even considered when he first came to Arkham, but he realized suddenly that it was a role he'd need to step into if he wanted to be successful towards his own goal. Managing island security would be an integral part of keeping not only the colonists, but Dick himself, safe, and that started with having a strong command of the guards.

So he took a deep, steadying breath, and then turned to face the guards, who halted respectfully and waited. "He's to be detained in that cell and kept under supervision at all times by at least two guards. I don't want him escaping. I'll see to him before night falls, but it won't hurt to let him sweat a little." It might convince him to feel more like talking, but more importantly, it would give Roy enough time to figure out just what, exactly, he was going to do with the assassin he'd just assumed responsibility of.

The guards nodded, and one threw him a quick salute before turning to see to their orders. Roy watched them jog off down the hallway for a moment, before turning to catch up to the nursing team.

Dick had been settled into his private room by the time Roy caught up, and the last of the nurses was cleaning up and wheeling the gurney out as he approached. Promising to call for assistance should anything unexpected happen—and double-checking to make sure it likely _wouldn't_—Roy hauled a pair of chairs over next to the bed, stowed his bow and quiver on one, and sat down gratefully on the other. He'd refused to feel his exhaustion before while waiting, but now that the entire mess was more or less over with and Dick was _here_, safe, in front of him again, he realized for the first time how bone-weary he was. Stupid, really; he'd barely done anything, other than shoot down the assassin and run Dick to the facility, and there was no reason for him for him to feel so drained, but he did all the same.

It was what it was, Roy decided. He'd just have to deal with it. For now...things were okay, at least. Mostly.

His eyes drifted to Dick automatically. The former sidekick was still unconscious, and his chest rose and fell rhythmically with sleep. His right arm was bound carefully into a sling to keep movements to a minimum, and Roy could see a swathe of bandages peeking from beneath the old hospital scrubs they'd re-dressed him in, and another set of bandages wrapped around his arm where he'd been grazed. He was still paler than normal, but already had regained at least a little color. He was alive, but it seemed so obvious now that he was here and in front of Roy, injured and asleep, just how young he was. Hell, how had he ever missed it? Dick would have gone on alone forever without saying a word and Roy never would have noticed before now.

Well, now he _did_ know. Dick was alive, and Roy intended to _keep_ him that way.

And keeping him that way also included dealing with the threats made against him. Satisfied that Dick was safe, for the moment at least, Roy settled back a little further into his chair and set his thoughts to the assassin.

What was he supposed to do with the man, anyway, now that the attack was over?

Before Z-day the answer would have been simple: turn him over to the authorities. As vigilantes their job was never to be judge or jury; their sole purpose was to put a stop to the people who would harm others. Once they'd done the hard work of apprehending the criminals and halting their schemes, they could be turned over to the police, and the law would handle their fates one way or another.

That wasn't an option now, though. The legal system was in shambles with the country practically falling apart around them, thanks to the swarms of zeds filling the country, and law enforcement was practically non-existent. There was still some semblance of a police force and legal system over on the West coast, where the military had a halfhearted grip on the land and had managed to keep it somewhat free from zombies, but in central and eastern United States the only thing that passed for police presence was whatever security measures individual colonies or settlements had set up to protect themselves. In the case of Arkham Refuge, that was the guards...which meant Roy himself was the decision maker.

But that didn't mean he could start abusing his newfound power, either. His status as an important figure in the Refuge's security wasn't even official yet, nor did he have the trust from his not-exactly-subordinates or clout around the colony to start slinging potentially controversial orders. Whatever decision he made, he would have to think very carefully on it, and be able to stand by it should anyone—like the council members, or Dick himself—inquire into his actions.

And so, with that in mind...what was he to do with the man?

He could not stay freely at the Refuge. That was absolutely without a doubt one thing Roy was not willing to compromise on. The man had been willing to shoot a child with intentions to kill; no matter what his reasoning was, he was dangerous. Given even the slightest chance there was a high possibility he'd try the same thing again, and the next time he might be successful—and that wasn't even taking into account any_ other_ potential victims he might set his eye on.

That meant he'd have to either remain locked up, or he'd have to..._disappear_...from the island. But neither of those options were possible either, as far as Roy could see. They couldn't keep the assassin locked up forever; Roy simply could not spare the manpower to guard him, nor could the colony afford to let their supplies and energy dwindle by caring for a murderer. Intensive Treatment was also not suitable for prolonged living, due to inadequate lighting and heating. It meant they wouldn't be able to keep the man there long-term, and Roy was not about to risk trying to detain him in other, less secure areas of the island, much less near civilians. And as furious as he was at the assassin, Roy could not justify simply having him executed either. Not only was it _extremely_ morally questionable, but he _certainly_ didn't have the authority on the island to pull it off, not to mention Dick would be livid if a man was killed on his account.

Roy mulled over the dilemma for close to two hours, chasing options around in his thoughts, but always it came down to the same issue: the man couldn't stay, but he couldn't be gotten rid of, either. By the time Dick let out a soft groan he still didn't have so much as a vague clue of how to handle the man, other than knowing he had to be dealt with _soon._

Dick hissed softly under his breath, and this time there was a slight twitch of the fingers on his good hand. Roy shifted his chair a little closer and leaned forward as Dick's head began to shift, just slightly, as though he were starting to wake. Roy was patient; he'd waited hours, after all, he could wait a few minutes more for Dick to get his bearings.

But at last Dick finally managed to claw his way somewhat into consciousness, and his eyes fluttered open slowly. He still looked dazed, not entirely awake or coherent yet, and his face immediately seemed to tighten into what Roy knew had to be pain. With the facility still in the process of stocking up for the winter they had precious little in the way of painkillers, meaning treatment with them would be sparse at best.

"Hey, Dick," Roy greeted him quietly. Dick blinked, and turned his head in Roy's direction, focusing on him blearily. When Roy was relatively sure he had his friend's attention—it was hard to tell for sure, he looked so disoriented—he added, "Probably a real stupid question, but...how are you feeling?"

Dick's face twisted into a slight grimace, which was more than enough of an answer for Roy, but he spoke anyway, his voice raspy. "Like...like I got run over. By the Batmobile. Twice."

"That good, huh?" Roy said dryly.

"Maybe worse," Dick said. He grit his teeth for a moment, and then slurred tiredly, "What...happened?"

"You were attacked," Roy said. Dick frowned, and Roy added, "It doesn't matter if you don't want to think about it right now. It's over. You're safe here, so don't strain yourself, got it?"

Dick did not look entirely happy at first, but at Roy's reassurances he seemed to settle a little. Despite the obvious pain and clear exhaustion, he still managed a weak smirk. "You...playing doctor now...Roy?"

"Hardly," Roy answered with a snort. "I'm not going to be scraping and bowing when you try to charm your way out of that bed before you're allowed up. You'll find that trick doesn't work on me—I know you too well."

"Darn," Dick murmured, with mock disappointment. "I'll just have to...figure out another way..." It had only been a few minutes, but his eyelids were already drooping again; he was obviously greatly fatigued by the ordeal and the toll it had taken on his body, and only half awake to begin with. Quite frankly Roy was surprised he'd woken so early at all.

Roy sighed. "Go back to sleep, Dick," he said quietly. "Just rest for a while. Maybe when you wake up you'll have some ideas." Not to mention if he was unconscious he wouldn't have to deal with the discomfort of his injuries as much.

"Mmm," Dick hummed in agreement. "They'll be good ones...won't see it coming, Roy..." There were a few more incoherent mumbles, and then Dick's breathing tapered off into the even patterns of sleep once more.

Roy was impressed; he hadn't honestly expected Dick to trust him so easily like that, after being shot at. Then again, Dick was his friend, and even if he wasn't, Dick knew about his old life as Speedy. If Roy told him it was safe, he'd believe it. It only reinforced Roy's decisions of the day, emphasizing more than ever that he was the only one really suited for the job of keeping Dick alive and well in the apocalypse.

He sighed, and stood up from his chair. Dick had woken up—that was a good sign. The staff would want to know about it, but between that and their predictions about Dick's recovery, Roy was certain he was in the clear. It should be safe to leave him, for a little while at least—and there was no point putting off dealing with the _other_ half of the problem now.

Moving quickly, Roy notified the nurses of Dick's brief awakening, and then sent one to deliver a message to the guards he'd instructed earlier. They arrived quickly, and Roy realized they had stationed themselves outside the medical facility, clearly expecting further orders. Roy wasn't exactly happy about having to leave, but he trusted these guards a little, at least—he remembered training them, trusted his own judgement of character, and was impressed by how quickly they had completed his orders in a crisis situation. They would do for now, until he could tackle the security issue more directly. He left them to guard Dick's room, with explicit instructions to _only_ admit the medical staff and himself, before heading for Intensive Treatment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Crosshairs**

Part three of a fanfiction by Velkyn Karma

**Warnings:** Language is pretty heavy in this chapter. The assassin is very...vocal about how he feels.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own, or pretend to own, _Young Justice_ or any of its subsequent characters, plots or other ideas. That right belongs to DC, Warner Brothers, and associated parties.

* * *

Intensive Treatment was by far Arkham's most infamous building, and despite being abandoned for over a year, and now in the early stages of renovation, it was still undeniably eerie. The dim lighting, rusted metal pillars and floors, dirty surfaces and old-style architecture put Roy in mind of a turn of the century industrial mill rather than a mental institution or correctional facility, and showed Arkham's age. Even its elevators looked more like old lifts than modern ones, and the twisted gargoyles, high arches, and tall, gothic windows that acted as decor only added to the ancient atmosphere. It made the occasional television screen or camera (useless, but not yet scavenged for parts) hanging on the walls seem woefully out of place. And stumbling across the pre-Z-day renovations into state-of-the-art security measures and clinically, almost mercilessly precise defenses and detention technology was jarring, to say the least.

Regardless of which part of the center you walked through—old and dirty, or new and coldly practical—there was always an air of...unease, to the place. It was no surprise to Roy that the center's inhabitants had remained completely unhinged; in fact, he was more surprised that the staff had managed to stay sane as long as they did, if they managed it at all. There was something undeniably _wrong_ about the atmosphere, something dark, unsettling, and angry just under the surface, as though waiting for the chance to strike. Even Roy, knowing full well that there was nothing 'haunted' or 'cursed' about the place, could understand why the civilians had thought as much—things had happened in this building in the past, and you could all but _feel_ the ghosts of lost minds screaming out for vengeance.

The single exception was the floor Dick had started renovating for manufacturing use; cleaned and repurposed, it did not have the same dank, oppressing feel as the rest of the building. As of yet it wasn't quite enough to save Intensive Treatment from the rumors flying about. Even the workers that _did_ handle manufacturing and renovating here did their jobs as quickly and efficiently as possible, to spare themselves the need to go back.

Roy was not heading in that direction at the moment, and avoided the floor entirely, as well as the broken-down, unusable elevator. He took the stairs instead, ignoring how the building fell progressively farther into disrepair and much colder the farther down he went; Dick simply did not have a powerful enough generator to keep all of the buildings heated constantly yet. The stench of mildew and rot, relatively mild on the upper levels, grew worse the farther he descended as well, no doubt from the sewers and catacombs below the building that as yet had not been cleared or cleaned.

He would be very impressed indeed, if Dick managed to successfully clear the ghosts and the grime from Intensive Treatment.

The holding cells were more like what Roy expected of a prison: still cold and unfeeling metal, but more modern, at least. He passed an observation desk and a cell with every square inch painted in question marks, and finally spotted his guards, both standing at attention outside of one of the locked and barred cells.

"Good to see you made it, sir," one of the guards—Cooper, Roy thought—said with a nod. Roy resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow at the 'sir' title again; where on earth was it coming from, anyway? It wasn't like he'd announced his intent to assume head of security yet.

"I want this taken care of immediately," was Roy's only answer, as he turned to observe the man in the cell.

The assassin was in his early thirties, as far as Roy could tell, with a formerly muscular build that appeared to have withered somewhat since the apocalypse and dark lines under his eyes from too much stress or not enough sleep. There were a number of bandages wrapped around one of his arms, which he favored, cradling it carefully with his free hand. Roy might have felt sorry for him, if it wasn't abundantly clear this was the same man that had just taken a shot at an unsuspecting eleven year old only a few hours prior. Now he felt nothing but disgust, and no small amount of fury, towards the man on the other side of the bars.

"You're the little shit's playmate," the man observed, after squinting through the dim lighting at him for a moment. "Come to say hi?" He smirked.

"A little more than that, I think," Roy answered, tone frigid.

"Good," the man shot back, and his smirk vanished, replaced by an angry scowl. " 'Cause I've been _wanting_ to give the bastard that shot me a piece of my mind!"

Roy's eyes narrowed. "That's funny, considering that between the two of us, I'm not the one that shot to _kill_," he snapped. "You two can go," he added, glancing over at the guards briefly before turning his attention back to the killer.

They seemed uneasy about leaving him, and Beckett glanced around the dank halls almost nervously before looking back to Roy. He wasn't entirely sure if they were just afraid to leave him alone with the prisoner for his own safety, or if they were afraid to leave them alone because they were in the middle of the bones of Intensive Treatment. Either way, their concerns were misplaced. "I'll be fine," he told them curtly. "I can handle myself, _and_ him."

"You got it, sir," Cooper finally said with a nod, passing a small ring of keys to Roy. Both of them shot one last disgusted glance in the direction of the prisoner before heading back the way Roy had just come, though not without keeping uneasy grips on their bows. Roy would have to work on that with them. Intensive Treatment as it presently was had that effect on people, but his guards couldn't afford to show such nervousness so obviously, not when the civilians needed to trust they could handle things post Z-day.

He marveled, briefly, at how easily such decisions came to his mind, and how quickly they had obeyed his orders.

But those were thoughts for a different time. Steeling himself, he turned back to the imprisoned assassin, just in time to catch the man sneering in disgust at _him._

"Oh," the man scowled, "So_ you're_ a big shot now, huh? And I heard the other one lived. More fuckin' kids runnin' the place. God, this place is fucked."

"It's better than outside. So. Why'd you do it." It was more of a statement than a question, and Roy left no doubt that he expected it to be answered.

But this man wasn't like the dozens of tight-lipped mafia goons or drug ring underlings that he and Green Arrow had stopped in the past, and needed no clever interrogation tricks to make him spill. As soon as the demand left Roy's lips the man sneered, and did not hesitate to answer. "Kid had to go. Too fuckin' dangerous, hoggin' all the power and the supplies, tellin' everybody what to do, turnin' everybody into his pansy little toadies kissin' ass for just a few handouts. That much power goes to a guy's head, an' a spoiled little shit like that, it's gonna be ten times worse. Arkham don't need another corrupt warden like that, 'specially when shit gets tough!"

Roy's eyes narrowed. "You think he'd seize everything and abandon us if things got dangerous."

"Think?" The man nearly shrieked, eyes bulging with fervor. "I fuckin' _know!_ His rich bastard daddy couldn't fuckin' hack it and ran off with his tail between his legs when things got tough. And you think that little shit'll do any better when winter gets hard? When the zeds attack again?" He jabbed his uninjured arm violently for emphasis as he ranted. "'Course he fuckin' won't, he's used to the goddamn easy life! Things get tough and he'll turn coward jus' like his damn daddy, keep everythin' for himself. He ain't got the guts to fight or do the dirty work that needs doin', if it comes to that. An' with everyone fuckin' bowing and scraping and treating him like a goddamn king nobody's gonna see it until it's too late. He'll take us all down with him! No, he'll let us rot and live off _our_ hard work!"

Roy was disgusted with just how little the man understood about Richard Grayson. Dick had dropped the rich-boy pretense when the apocalypse had come in favor of saving as many lives as possible, especially when there was no longer a need to protect the non-existent 'Robin' guise. Dick was neither selfish nor cowardly—even the man's accusations against Bruce Wayne were lies. But it was clear he believed them. The man was fanatical and deranged, that was for sure.

"And that's a reason to kill a _child_," Roy said icily.

"It's a reason to kill anybody," the man snarled back with conviction. "Especially a weak leader with lives leanin' on him and monsters at the door."

"You really believe that," Roy said quietly. "Don't you."

"Damn straight I do! And I ain't the only one."

Roy's eyes narrowed. There it was—a blatant admission that more than one person on the island wanted Dick dead, or out of the way. It was absolutely inexcusable. Roy would not stand for it, not on the Refuge, not when those people were alive _because_ of Dick's hard work and generosity and selflessness. This was a turning point: Roy had to prove, both to this man and the other nameless threats, that such actions would not be treated lightly, and he would not turn a blind eye to them. This was not Gotham of old, with its corrupt police system and network of crime. This was Arkham Refuge, a safe-haven in the midst of chaos, and it was time they understood what that meant.

"I see," Roy answered smoothly. "You have your convictions. Well, I have mine. You're a threat to my colony—so you're no longer welcome here. I'll escort you to the gate personally. You have one hour after passing through that gate to make yourself scarce."

The would-be assassin sneered at him, and did not seem remotely worried. "Feh, you ain't got the guts. That's _murder,_ your precious Grayson's too scared to get his hands bloody."

But Roy was not phased by the accusation, and his eyes were hard as he stared the man down. "Grayson's not _here,_ is he? _I_ am. Besides, it's hardly murder. _Murder_ would be if I killed you right here and now and dropped your body into the catacombs below. It'd take weeks for them to find you—if they ever did." The man's sneer fell slowly on his face, and he no longer looked quite as sure as he did before. Good—Roy was getting tired of the condescending act.

"No," Roy continued, voice still cold, "you'll be walking out of that gate alive. That's more than you'd have given him, and_ far_ more than you deserve. Now if you come _back..._" He caught the man's eyes again, and waited a moment before finishing with, "Well, you'd best not, for your own sake. As it turns out, it's a lot harder to get _into_ Arkham than to leave it."

"You're serious?" the man asked after a moment. Roy was silent, but apparently it was enough of an answer to him, because he said with an edge of panic to his voice, "C'mon, man, that ain't funny. You know how many zeds are out there? And I got a gimp arm that _you_ gave me! I could die out there!"

Roy snorted; it figured that the man would be a hypocrite on top of everything else. He desired the protection and safety the island offered—protection and safety it never _would_ have offered, if not for Dick's ingenuity and effort. But now that all _that_ work was done, it was okay to murder the eleven year old, since they didn't agree on how to handle things. God, the man was completely delusional—Dick was worth him six thousand times over.

"You could," Roy answered finally. "Or you might not. That's up to you, and quite frankly as long as you're outside the Gotham lines, I don't care one way or another. But if you come back, to the city and _especially_ to Arkham Refuge, one way or another you will regret it."

The man looked more than a little panicked, but stepped up close to the bars a second later, trying to look as intimidating as possible with his bloodied arm cradled limply in the opposite hand. "You...you ain't got the guts."

Roy leaned in close, until their faces were only inches apart. "Just try me."

The man met him glare for glare, but backed down after only a few seconds, stepping back and looking away. Apparently he didn't like what he saw, and wasn't willing to even try calling Roy's bluff. For that matter, Roy wasn't even sure if it _was_ a bluff—his mood was deadly serious, and at that moment he felt harder than steel and coiled like a spring, ready for action. And while he'd like to think that he was simply doing a fine job of intimidating the man, there was a part of him buried deep inside that felt as though, if he were forced to a point at which he would need to take dangerous or permanent action to protect the Refuge's residents—_all_ of them—he might actually seriously consider it.

But that point wasn't now, and thankfully that was a decision for another day. The man believed what he saw—maybe because it wasn't _entirely_ untrue—and seemed to realize his banishment was, in fact, the closest thing to mercy the apocalypse was going to offer him. He swallowed, and after a moment said, "Al...alright."

"Good," Roy said curtly. He released the cell door, slapped a pair of cuffs that his guards must have used to transport the assassin back on the man's arms, and pushed him towards the stairs. The man was smart enough not to fight, apparently realizing that bruises and broken limbs would help him very little outside the walls. The man was shaking, though, and Roy couldn't help but feel vindictive satisfaction, now that the would-be assassin was starting to realize how badly he'd overestimated his chances.

Roy was unsurprised to see Cooper and Beckett waiting outside the entrance to Intensive Treatment, bows at the ready. "Wanted to see if you needed any help with this bastard," the first one informed him curtly.

"I've got him," Roy answered immediately. "Go ahead and warn the gate we're coming. He's decided he's better off not staying here." The assassin attempted to glare over his shoulder at Roy, but knew better than to argue, or protest the claim that he'd chosen to leave.

His guards obeyed, and by the time Roy reached the main gate they were waiting for him. The guards on the wall didn't hesitate to open the gate at Roy's command, watching the would-be killer coldly, and a few fingered their bows as though they wished to use them. Roy stepped past the gates while pushing the assassin ahead, un-cuffed him, and reminded coldly, "One hour. That's all you have until sunset, and you'd best be gone by then. Don't forget what I said."

The man glared at him hatefully—and with more than a little fear, too—but he nodded in understanding. Roy turned his back on him, and seconds later the gate clanged shut behind him.

"He doesn't come back in," Roy ordered his guards—how quickly he was coming to think of them as _his!_—sharply. "No exceptions. If he tries, call me—I'll deal with him." The men nodded in understanding, and more than one saluted him.

Satisfied, and feeling bone-weary all over again, Roy made his exhausted way back towards the medical facility.

By the time he reached Dick's private room again, Roy was as dead on his feet as it was possible to get without it being literal. The nurses had nothing new to report about his friend's condition, and the main threat was taken care of, so Roy figured he could take it a little easier, relatively at least.

None of the nurses argued when he commandeered a wheeling cot from one of the other, empty rooms and hauled it to Dick's, setting himself up closer to the door. It might have been paranoid, but until Roy could look into this angry fanatic business further he refused to let himself get too far from the potential target, and if he was serious about this whole body-guarding business he might as well commit himself to it one hundred percent. So he rolled onto the cot, facing the door with his bow close at hand, and let himself drift into the same light, wary sleep he'd used when traveling across the zed-infested country.

He figured he'd gotten all of five hours of rest when something finally woke him. It was a noise, but not a threatening one, because he didn't instinctively feel the urge to put an arrow to the string and fire as he rose. He blinked himself slowly into awareness and listened, and was rewarded a moment later when he heard it again: the distinct rustle of sheets behind him, as though somebody was shifting—or trying to get up.

"Do not set one foot out of that bed, Dick," he snapped automatically. "You're supposed to be _resting!_"

He rolled over and sat up just in time to catch Dick—exhausted looking, a little pale from obvious pain, and inhibited by the sling, but _alive,_ conscious, and coherent—giving him a guilty look, caught in the act of lifting the sheet. He tried to recover by offering a weak-looking smirk, but Roy was onto that game, and gave him a pointed stare until Dick finally lowered the sheet back into place.

"Just wanted to see if you were okay," Dick said, after a moment. "You weren't answering when I called your name, and I thought...well." He gestured with his sling, just slightly, and then immediately winced, clearly regretting the action.

"Just tired," Roy answered immediately, but softer this time. He hadn't meant to worry his friend. "Not hurt at all. It's just been a _long_ day."

"Tell me about it." Dick winced again, and settled back into his pillows, apparently tired of trying to support himself with only one good arm.

For a moment Roy thought he was settling back into sleep, and was just considering salvaging his own nap—even with five hours he still felt bone-tired—but a moment later Dick spoke up again, from his more reclined position on the bed. "How long since...?"

"It happened late this morning," Roy said, becoming more alert as they drifted into more serious topics. "It's...probably close to midnight now."

"I see." A pause; Dick's eyes were closed and he still looked asleep, but Roy could tell he was anything but, and thinking hard. After a moment, the eleven year old said softly, "And...the people who did it?"

"Just one," Roy said curtly. "He's taken care of."

Dick's eyes opened and he turned to look at Roy with a touch of apprehension, although Roy wasn't sure who it was meant for: Roy, the assassin, or Dick himself. " 'Taken care of'? That sounds...ominous."

"He's not dead," Roy clarified. _Probably,_ he added internally, but he wasn't about to mention that part. "I had him...exiled, I guess. He's no longer permitted on the island."

Dick seemed to let out a slow breath that Roy hadn't realized he was holding until now. He looked a little relieved—Roy didn't blame him for that; the man _had_ taken a shot at him after all—but also a little concerned. "It's a cruel world out there," he said after a moment.

"Then he shouldn't have tried to murder a _kid_," Roy said with conviction. He had no pity for the assassin; he hadn't made a vengeful attempt on the would-be killer's life, but he'd cry no tears if the man got himself eaten out there, either.

Dick frowned at that, but he was smart. Even hazy on his rationed painkillers and dealing with a serious injury he'd probably already come to the same conclusions Roy had stewed over for most of the day. He'd know Roy's decision was the closest thing to mercy they had the option of offering while still protecting the innocent civilians of the colony. It wasn't a pleasant decision, but it was the right one.

Apparently he still felt the need to object on _something,_ however, because after a moment he scowled (weakly, but still a scowl) and said, "I'm not _just_ a kid."

"Yes," Roy shot back, "You are."

Dick blinked, and opened his mouth to argue. Roy had known this conversation was coming, though, and rolled right over Dick's protests. "Look," he said curtly, "I know you don't like the thought of people thinking you're weaker because you're younger, and I know you're smart as hell, and probably better prepared than almost anybody else on the island for this whole apocalypse mess. But the thing is, Dick, you might be smarter, stronger, and more prepared than the average eleven year old, but you're _still eleven_. You're not even a teenager yet. And you can't do _all_ of this—it's not fair to you. More importantly, _other_ people might still think of you just like a kid, with all the weaknesses of a kid, and will attack accordingly, and you don't _have_ the Robin guise to protect you anymore. Today _proved_ that."

Dick grimaced, and Roy could see the fingers on his bad arm twitching, as though he itched to put the limb to use and was being painfully reminded he could not. After a moment he hissed with clear frustration, "And what am I supposed to do about that, huh? I can't just stop helping these people because they don't know I'm Robin and they think it's okay to take potshots at me for God only knows what reason. You said it yourself, I'm more prepared than anybody else on this island to handle this stuff—I can't just _stop_ because one guy had an issue with me."

"More than one," Roy corrected him. "Don't think this is the last time this will happen. You and I both know better than that; we've seen how this works." Dick looked grim, but nodded in agreement. After a moment, Roy added, "But I'm not suggesting you give up or let yourself get scared off. I'm saying this is too much for one person to handle. You need help—somebody to take a little of the workload off your plate, and somebody to watch your back against future threats. That way you can devote yourself to the remaining tasks with more focus, and be protected while doing it."

"And do you have somebody in mind?" Dick asked. There was a glitter in his eyes that told Roy the kid already knew where this conversation was going, though—and Roy wasn't surprised in the least by that. Dick had always been exceptional at reading people, after all, and Roy _had_ said he was clever.

But Roy only shrugged, as though he was considering a candidate but hadn't quite decided on him yet. "I figured somebody with a similar skill-set as yourself," he said. "The _other_ person better prepared for the apocalypse over everybody else on the island. Somebody with adaptive combat and defense training who can back you up on security measures and simultaneously keep you breathing for another day."

A tiny smirk twitched at the corner of Dick's mouth. "Yeah? Sounds awful specific. I don't know if we'll be able to find somebody with all those qualifications..."

Roy rolled his eyes a little at that, but said dryly, "Well, I already have some rapport with the Refuge's guards, so I suppose I can fill the position until you find somebody more suitable."

"I _guess_ that'll work," Dick said, with a mock sigh. His expression grew more serious a moment later. "But no, really...it sounds like you were doing a good job while I was out. Lot of tough calls to make...and giving people orders is never easy. But it sounds like you handled it well..." He smiled a little. "What'd I tell you? In a crisis there's nobody else I'd rather have at my back."

That meant a lot to Roy, to know Dick had trusted him so absolutely before Roy had even realized he'd deserved it. It was like Dick had known what he was capable of, had the potential to be, long before Roy himself ever discovered it.

But he'd never admit to that out loud, so instead he said, "You'll probably regret saying that soon enough. Watching your back also includes protecting you from _yourself,_ you know. You're taking it easy for the next two months until that shoulder's fully healed—that means eating regularly, not overworking yourself, _listening_ to me when I say you've done enough, and _sleeping,_ because no, it's _not_ only for the weak. No arguments," he added, at Dick's indignant squawk of protest, before he promptly proceeded to ignore any and all of the eleven-year-old's complaints.

Even having recently been shot, and suffering the uncomfortable consequences and weaknesses that followed, it still took Dick a good ten minutes before his futile attempts at arguing and bargaining against his 'un-asterous overprotection' petered out. By then he had worn himself down pretty significantly, and looked like he was drifting back towards sleep. Roy didn't try to sway him—the rest would do him good, and he had a feeling it would rarely be this easy in the future.

But just before Dick seemed ready to drift off completely, the eleven year old spoke one last time. "Hey, Roy?"

"Yeah?"

A pause for a moment, before Dick murmured sleepily but sincerely, "Are _you_ okay after all this? You seem kinda...a little different..."

Roy blinked at the question, and considered it carefully before answering, "I'm...fine. Actually, all things considered, I'm...better than I ever have been since Z-day."

And to his surprise Roy found it was actually the truth.

* * *

And now we all know why Roy was so overprotective in _Age of Heroes_ and how he became head of security :)

Hope you liked it Friar (and...everybody else that ever commented on how much they love the _Age of Heroes_ Dick and Roy dynamic haha).

~VelkynKarma


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